These Marks We Keep
by Choice
Summary: Kurt's reminiscing on his scars, including his Only Exception. Slightly NSFW, with BDSM subtext and mentioned human branding; non-explicit.


**These Marks We Keep

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I wrote this for the "Possession/Marking" box on my Kink Bingo card. I'm not completely satisfied with everything about it, but I'm pleased with my take on the kink subject matter.  
Despite this being a fill for _kink_bingo_, the content of this story isn't sexually explicit. I wanted to do an "erotic focus" on the kink specified, and this is what happened as a result.

Sex or no sex-I hope you enjoy it!

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Kurt was not a fan of anything imperfect on his body, anything that marred his skin. He preferred the appearance of a canvas of pristine, porcelain skin stretched sparingly over the frame of his bone-work. He wished he appeared untouched and unblemished, but it was unreasonable to _not _get hurt in the process of living life. That, and his dad, back in Kurt's childhood days, had known nil about the preventative treatments for scarring, which led to a plethora of scars and reminders of a childhood past.

Like, for instance, one faintly circular scar he had from learning how to ride a bike. It looked ugly and unseemly, a faint dusky rose spot on his kneecap that reminded him of the shadowy craters on a full moon.

And then there were his battle-scars from summers spent at his aunt's house, living in constant fear of her temperamental Siamese. She had been more feral than domesticated prissy-pet, though it had gotten its fair share of pampering from Kurt's aunt who believed her "precious Priscilla" could do no evil, even when Kurt always came to her, crying, with wounds that looked like a paper shredder had attacked him.

The one scar that bothered him the most was a splatter-shaped blemish that rested against his right collarbone, low enough to be concealed by designer scarves, and set closer to the back of his neck so it was less noticeable (to anyone but himself, that is).

It had been barely a year since Kurt's mother-Burt's wife of nearly a decade-had passed, and while Kurt was beginning to dry his eyes and remember his mother fondly and without bursting into tears, Burt was still trying to break loose of a long mourning period. In an attempt to be an amazing son (and maybe to try and temporarily fill that void in Burt's heart, the one that missed his wife who always cooked him the powdered sugar-drenched fried treats whenever he was having an off day), Kurt pulled out the old, stained index card that said "Burt's Bad-Day Beignets" in a quiet, feminine scrawl surrounded by cutesy little pink hearts, and set to work making his dad happy again, if only for the few minutes it usually took him to scarf down the fried dough.

He had seen his mother cooking beignets since he could remember, so he had a pretty good idea of what he was doing. What he stupidly forgot, though, was to never, _never _plop the dough into the hot frying oil.

Kurt always sneered at that scar in the mirror. Instead of making his dad feel better, he nearly gave the man a coronary from stumbling upon Kurt screeching his head off while apricot skin seemed to peel right off of his body.

So yes, Kurt despised scarring and imperfections Scarring was sacrilege, and he'd always make sure to apply a plethora of creams and vitamin E to healing wounds to assure himself that nothing would become permanent. Wrinkles were the enemy, and he took to a daily regimen to prepare himself for their imminent attack, years or months from now.

But, of course, as many things in life, Kurt had his Only Exception.

It was a nondescript thing, a bit of raised flesh hidden by everyday clothing that would only be seen in an intimate setting. Whenever Kurt caught a glimpse of the shiny, knotted mark nestled in the low indent of his left hip, he would smile and press a chaste kiss to two of his fingers, pressing them in turn against the scar. He always found himself absently brushing his hand against it while he strutted down the halls of his fashion magazine's headquarters, only allowing himself the briefest, most secretive of smiles. (It was especially hilarious when some new interns happened to be walking in the opposite direction; their frightened faces in result of his smile made him want to burst out laughing.)

He'd gotten it a year or so ago, and really, it was no different from the gaudy tatts people got-you know, the kind with the person's significant other's name inked forever on the surface of an ankle, a forearm, a breast? Kurt refused to have Puck's namesake drawn onto him with a needle and ink, just as Puck refused to wear anything fancier than polo shirts, so they'd compromised, and the small, circular brand forever stamped onto his skin was the result of said compromise.

It had hurt, sure-a piece of glowing-hot metal pressed against flesh _would _hurt, and badly, for Christ's sake-but the proud, doting attention and care from Puck afterward was plenty salve for his irritated, burnt skin.

Kurt treated the round, upraised mark less like some permanent hickey and more like a wedding band on his ring finger. It meant eternity and wholeness for Puck and Kurt: Puck _owned _Kurt (as if they were married equals, not in the sense of owning an animal), and Kurt was fine in that knowledge. Even if there wasn't a gleaming piece of metal wrapped around his finger to warn away others, Kurt knew who he was and would always be faithful to, and it sure as hell wasn't his flirtatious lead photographer, Dmitri.

Like all symbols, the branding went further than the surface of his skin. There was a certain satisfaction and pride he felt towards himself whenever he looked at the mark in the mirror, like he'd done something superhuman for the sake of love; what others might perceive as submission, he saw as acceptance of fact. And the reverence, the awe, the _love _he could feel emanating from Puck whenever the other man pressed his tongue over and in the center of the sensitive mark before going down on Kurt, whenever they showered together and Puck ran sudsy hands down Kurt's sides to trace the path of that circle, whenever they cuddled on the sofa and Puck's fingertips were magnetically drawn to the scar-it went bone-deep, like Puck's possession of him would be visible in his very marrow should he be autopsied.

Honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
